At the outset of the season we were in particularly bad straits. A rainy night when we first paraded, in New York, caused an epidemic of pneumonia, which our proficient veterinarian could not stay. The supply of horses diminished rapidly, and in two weeks it was with some difficulty that we accomplished unloading, parade and departure without serious delay. Then were displayed, conspicuously, on the phalanx of stable tents and at the entrance to the lot, announcements that we desired to purchase native animals. The show was then in West Virginia. For a fortnight the scene in the horse quarters resembled a gypsy camp. The owner and his associates knew just what they wanted, made the fact plain and were ready to pay spot cash when they found it. But the farmers and horse traders at once conceived the notion that this was a heaven-sent opportunity to rid their stalls of the aged, infirm beasts which had accumulated on their hands. Concealing defects with adroit craft, they would flourish up to tents and with great gravity of manner dwell upon the merits of the animal which fitted him perfectly for circus requirements. They reckoned not upon the familiar knowledge of the men with whom they dealt. A keen glance or a practised touch revealed all blemishes. No trick or stratagem, and I am sure every one known to sharp equine transactions was employed, availed against the showman’s discernment. A favorite dodge was to exhibit the animal in the shadow of the naphtha torches at night, but exposure followed at once. The circus traversed three States before the proper horses were procured.
Meanwhile “Boscow” unremittingly consumes snakes in a gaudy canvas booth at the entrance to the grounds. Clyde, a man of long established integrity and not deficient in lungs, gives personal assurances of the progress of the reptilian feast. “Eighteen years old, not married, pretty; and eats snakes like you eat strawberry short-cake! Eats ’em alive! Bites their heads off!” is his frequently repeated promise, and the constant, eager procession passing his stand and into the ophidian enclosure, testifies to the weight of his forceful eloquence.
Squatting in a cavernous serpentarium, patrons find “Boscow,” feminine in appearance only because of long, coarse black hair, surrounded by coiling, crawling reptiles. “She” has presumably just completed an especially elaborate animal meal, for to the nostrils comes the breath of tobacco and upwards winds the suspicion of cigar smoke. But “Boscow” waves away the muttered insinuations which penetrate even into “her” wild, untutored mind, and at the word of command eats ravenously of the amphibian mass which surrounds “her” on all sides.
“Boscow” was captured in the far-off jungles of Africa, Harry, the lecturer explains, and in wonderful words he continues of “her” fight for liberty, the ineffectual efforts to tame “her” savage nature, and “her” sullen refusal to discontinue snake diet. It is very awesome and impressive, and the audience, before making way for the clamoring ones behind, look with renewed interest at the strange creature. “Her” appearance lends belief to the fluent narrative, and to the more shrinking ones is proof of the need of precautionary measures in the dismal clanking of heavy binding chains as “she” springs scowling about the compartment. Little wonder no credence is placed in the bold assertion of one who proclaims that he saw “Boscow’s” brother, or surely a near blood relative, perspiring freely as he helped in the erection of the booth that morning. Her kin are, of course, in a remote, uncivilized land, and as ferocious as the girl herself. The incredulous person saunters off with dim wonder at the remarkable likeness filling his mind, Clyde’s frantic invitation to go inside pours out tirelessly, and Harry paints again and again the glowing picture of the snake-eating wonder.
TWO HEN’S EGGS, HAMMER, FILE AND NAIL-CLAW
PRESENTED A PLEADING, PENNILESS MISSISSIPPI
NEGRO BOY TO SECURE ADMISSION. HE GOT IN.
There is nothing like a spell of rainy weather to breed a feeling of despair in the showman. The route has been planned with the idea of evading as far as human foresight permits, unfavorable meteorological conditions, but it is inevitable that sometimes rain and mud and wind be encountered. There can then be nothing more mournful and disheartening than life with the circus. If, for a brief succession of days, performances have to be abandoned, profits are consumed with a ruining rapidity. It is not infrequent that this form of misfortune bankrupts the scantily-financed circus which has started out with hopeful prospects, for the overwhelming expense of maintaining the organization is not reduced whether it remains huddled on the cars or is displaying its glories to lucrative crowds. So resolute and so prepared for exigencies are the bigger shows, however, that nothing less than a flood can prevent unloading and presenting some sort of an exhibition. If the rain is continuous, there is no immediate prospect of relief, and the lot is a quagmire, the animal cages are often left on the cars. A staggering march to the marsh is made by the other vehicles and a semblance of show is given in the menagerie tent. In the space usually allotted to the animals, seats are put in position and a gallant effort made to get some financial return. A doleful, drenching sight it is, horses wallowing in the ring, acrobats and gymnasts shivering and slipping, and clowns feebly trying to call to life the smile of pleasure. Straw is littered over the premises in the endeavor to absorb the moisture, but avails little. Where the stretches of canvas are sewed together the water penetrates through, and muttering spectators leave reluctantly or elevate umbrellas. The heavy laboring of the groaning tent adds to the feeling of misery and melancholy. The circus people gaze longingly across the empty fields where are houses snug and tight. Then the heaped-up gloom of the night, the black, wet journey to the cars and a possible awakening to identical conditions in the morning. These are times that strain the buoyant temperament and the rugged constitution. Sunshine, however, restores human spirits, tarnished gilt and saturated canvas, and drives away the ghastly memory of it all. Exuberance reasserts itself and the panoplied colony emerges in all its former order, convenience and beauty.
It is the first heavy rainfall of the season that brings the most overwhelming woe. The custom of circus owners is to wash their tents with paraffine at the beginning of each season. The waxy mixture renders the cloth waterproof and preserves it from atmospheric influences. The treatment is not efficacious, however, until the fabric has been thoroughly soaked with rain and succeeding sunshine has dried it out. So it is that a dull dread of approaching calamity fills every professional heart when the initial storm sets in. The water falls upon showman and patron as if no so-called protection was above. A wan and spectral “big top” it is at night, sometimes with vivid lightning filling it with sulphur-smelling blazes, and the frail dressing-room tent clinging to it like a luminous bulb.